


Really, only when drinking.

by warmpineneedles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 09:56:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11310975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmpineneedles/pseuds/warmpineneedles
Summary: He would have needed a confidante.





	Really, only when drinking.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The brilliant Sherlock fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+brilliant+Sherlock+fandom).



Ashes. John stood in the remains of 221B, wiping his hands, taking a moment to breathe. Sherlock whirled in, calling his name. Triumphantly raised the latest find in their quest for restoration. ‘Look what Molly gave us!’ Oh, Jesus. He’d forgotten. John swayed for a moment and sat down, hard, on Sherlock’s chair.

‘John?’

•

Trust issues. At the bleakest time of his life, John Watson had had secrets he couldn’t begin to share. Therapist? Compromised. Journal? Laughable. Bartenders? Could be Mycroft’s spies. And he could no longer bear his friends. Sherlock was dead. He was alone. He crawled through the flat, looking for Sherlock’s secrets instead. One day he found a tiny stash of cocaine. He tried it. An intense rush that shoved him, briefly, over the lip of his depression. Then he flushed the rest. He had no right to feel better.

On one of his drunken nights he settled on the skull. He had smashed a fair amount of china and held it in his palm, wondering how it would shatter. He couldn’t do it. ‘Friend. Well, I say friend.’ He’d thought Sherlock was kidding. Fuck it. He sat in his chair and reached for his glass and studied the skull for a long time. Cool and smooth and silent. He got up and locked the door, sat down again. Got up and closed the curtains, sat down again. He held the skull close and started to whisper.

He would have needed a confidante.

Only when drinking.

Really, only when drinking.

OK, yes, he kissed it once. He’d been a mess.

And so he managed. Months went by. He met Mary. Grew a mustache. Tried to look ahead. Moved out and left the skull on the mantle. And then Sherlock came home.

•

‘John?’

He gasped. A panic attack, and that was just stupid. Over a collection of bones. But for god’s sake, he’d forgotten. The skull was destroyed in the blast. He couldn’t even keep his deepest feelings intact. No wonder Sherlock was shaken by the death of his childhood friend. Anything could slip away.

'John?’

Sherlock had dropped to his knees in front of the chair. The new skull clutched in one hand. The other hand raised, hesitantly, over John’s knee. He was so beautiful. One of the many things John never allowed himself to say. He couldn’t stop shaking.

He meant to reach out and take the new skull. He really had. Somehow he ended up cradling Sherlock’s instead. Fingers curled around his jaw, brushing his curls. Neither of them moved. It was too late. Was it? John let the weight inside him tip him forward. His mouth at Sherlock’s ear. He took a deep breath: Please god, let me live. But he began.

**Author's Note:**

> @warmpineneedles on tumblr


End file.
